“It is and it isn’t. Your bishops like to get around their diocese when they can. However, when the priest is new like Father Corbett, they usually leave them alone for a few years so that they can settle in. There’s them that say that himself is involved in this scheme.”
“And what does the valley think about it?”
“Sure, aren’t they Irish? So typically they are of two minds. One mind says that the Bishop and the priest and Nora Joyce should leave things as they are. Don’t we have enough troubles as it is? The other mind says there are still four innocent men in jail.”
“What is supposed to happen?”
“After the confirmation and the reading of the Gospel, Tom Casey is supposed to come up to the altar and confess to the bishop that he lied at the trials to save his own life.”
“Tom Casey!”
“The valley has been punishing him in its own way. His wife, who it is said is not exactly a paragon of virtue, refuses to sleep with him till he tells the truth.”
“It should be an interesting Mass.”
“Oh, it will be all of that, boyo, all of that. Another jar?”
“No thanks, Marty. It was a long ride over here. I’d better get some sleep.”
Letterfrack, County Galway, May 12, 1883
The weather this morning was in sharp contrast to the grim business ahead of us. It is a glorious spring day; gentle breezes caress your face, big puffy white clouds drift lazily across the sky, and the smell of spring flowers has overcome the usual stench of manure and peat fire. Men, women, and children are dressed in their best clothes and wearing shoes to greet the bishop, and there is an ambience of agitation and expectation in the crowd, as if something exciting and important is about to occur. They whisper to one another, speculating, no doubt, about what might happen.
I am struck by how handsome the women look when they wear their Sunday best. Just like my mother and my sister, though the latter don’t wash their feet in a stream and don socks and shoes a hundred yards away from the church.
I see my old friend, Sergeant Tommy Finnucane.
We shake hands briskly.
“I thought you might be around, lad,” he says. “It promises to be a grand morning for you fellas.”
“And what do you think about it, Tommy?”
“Well, Mr. Bolton never asked us what we thought. He was convinced that his unimpeachable witnesses were all he needed. We never believed the bastards from the beginning.”
“Why are you lads here? They’re not concerned in Dublin Castle about what Tom Casey might say, are they?”
“Not a bit of it. They’re concerned that there might be some disorder here, especially with a bishop around.”
“Will there?”
“Not a chance of it. The people respect the Bishop too much.”
I didn’t have the courage to ask him what he thought about the execution of Myles Joyce, the man he had arrested last August.
“Jesus and Mary be with you, Mr. Fitzpatrick, sir.”
“And Jesus and Mary and Patrick be with you, Josie Philbin.”
The little ragamuffin had made an attempt, mostly unsuccessful, to wash her face. A decrepit bonnet sat askew on her head. Her bright eyes shone with excitement.
“How’s herself?” I asked.
“She’ll be here shortly, sir. With the baby. Neither are keeping very well.”
“How are your finances, Josie?”
“I ought not to answer that, sir.”
“Why not?”
“Aunt Nora is uneasy about where I get the money.”
“Does she know?”
“I think she suspects, sir … . When our cow died during the winter I had to sell our warm cloaks to buy a new cow.”
“She told you not to take any money from me?”
“No, Mr. Fitzpatrick, sir, she did not. We’d all of us be dead save for your money. She doesn’t care for herself, but she does worry about me and Mary Elizabeth.”
“Good,” I said, slipping another twenty pounds into her grubby paw.
She looked dubious but took the money.
“Thank you, sir,” she said with a wink.
What would happen when I returned to Chicago as I would in the fall, after the debate in Parliament? Perhaps I could send money for them to Father Corbett.
Then Nora appeared, her child clutched in her arm.
“Mr. Fitzpatrick, may I present my daughter, Miss Mary Elizabeth Joyce.”
The child, perhaps five months old, was pretty despite her wasted face and thin body. I wondered how many more days she might live. Her mother was also wasted and thin, almost ghostlike. Yet oddly she was radiantly beautiful in her prized red cloak; her eyes glowed and a touch of unearthly color illumined her sunken cheeks.
My heart wrenched in sadness.
“Good morning, Miss Joyce,” I said respectfully, touching the child’s face. “You are very beautiful, just like your mother.”
The little girl opened her eyes and smiled slightly, then went back to sleep.
Dear God in heaven, I must help them!
“She is a very good little baby,” her mother said proudly.
“I am told that you are in part responsible for this morning’s visit, Mrs. Joyce?”
“We all hope for truth and justice, Mr. Fitzpatrick We will have to wait and see what happens. Tom Casey may not even appear.”
“We have places reserved for your lot in the church, Mr. Fitzpatrick, sir,” Josie informed me.
She led Marty Dempsey and me into the already crowded church. A buzz of whispers filled the church. I was so shocked and so moved by Nora and her child that I could hardly concentrate on the dramatic revelation that was about to occur.
At a quarter to twelve, led by a young cross bearer and two equally young acolytes and preceded by a half dozen young people—a few years older than Josie—in their finest clothes, Bishop Kane in full regalia, with a priest on either side, came up the aisle in solemn procession. A small choir sang vigorously in off key Latin. The Bishop preached briefly and effectively in Irish. The congregation listened intently. Then he administered the sacrament of Confirmation. It was a solemn moment. The congregation seemed aware that the Holy Spirit was somehow among them. Then, as the young people returned with their sponsors to the front pew of the church, the Bishop began the Mass.
The church had now become stuffy and uncomfortable, the congregation restless and uneasy, wondering what would happen after the Gospel. One of the priests, perhaps Father Corbett, watched the congregation intently.
The Bishop returned to the pulpit and read the Gospel in Irish. He closed the book and waited, looking around the church. I felt the tension increase as the members of the congregation turned to each other expectantly. Then, just as one waited for something to snap, the door opened and a man walked hesitantly down the aisle, a lighted candle in his hand. Sweat pouring down his white face, he swayed as he approached the Bishop.
He mumbled something.
“Louder, my son!” the Bishop demanded.
The conversation was to be in English. Doubtless for the journalists. Presumably the Irish-speakers knew what was to be said, had perhaps known it for a long time.
For all the drama, my mind was on Nora. What was I to do about her!
“I’m Thomas Casey, m’lord. I’m the son of Little Tom Casey. I’m called Young Tom Casey.”
His voice was little more than a croak, like perhaps that of a dying bird.
“What do you wish of me, Thomas Casey?”
“I wish to confess my terrible sin.”
“What is that sin?”
He hesitated. The congregation scarcely breathed.
“To save my life I obeyed the Crown Solicitor and accused innocent men of the murder of John Joyce and family. Mr. Bolton said that if I did not perjure myself, I would be convicted and hung. He gave me a half hour to make up my mind to say what he wanted me to say.”
“Who were the innocent men?”
“All those
in prison now, milord, except Michael Casey and he, like me, was outside when the murders occurred.”
“I see … . Anyone else?”
Casey whispered a name.
“Speak up, my good man!”
“Myles Joyce, m’lord. He had nothing to do with the crime!”
His candle went out. The wax began to drip on the floor in front of the bishop.
A wave of inarticulate sound swept across the church.
“The man hung in the Galway jail before Christmas?”
“Yes, m’lord.” He gulped. “He was completely innocent.”
“And those who reported these men to the police?”
“Everyone knows they were lying! They were not there that night. It was too dark for them to see anything.”
“I see … . Now, who were the killers?”
“M’lord …” He hesitated, frightened.
“Yes?” Bishop Kane demanded
“It was all Big John Casey’s idea! We had met before at his house, and he said that John Joyce had to die or he would steal all the sheep in the valley!”
“And then?”
“The night of the killing we met again at his house. There was much drink taken. We were all drunk. He said they were all informers and had to die. Michael Joyce and I begged that the women be spared. John Casey said that we couldn’t take the chance that they would recognize any of us. He was very angry at Breige O’Brien for marrying John Joyce. He appointed three men to go into the house—his son Young John Casey, Pat Joyce, and Pat Lydon. He told me to go into the house, but I said that I would not.”
The congregation snorted with skepticism.
“These three men did the actual killings?”
“Yes, m’lord.”
“And Young John Casey and Pat Lydon are still free?”
“Yes, m’lord. They were called Kelly and Nee but those were false names. Pat Joyce that was hung was one of the killers. Pat Casey that was hung was inside, too, but I don’t think he killed anyone. I don’t think that Big John Casey ordered him to go in, but he might have.”
“So you are telling us here in this church that Big John Casey planned this brutal killing and that his son and at least two more men carried it out?”
“I am, m’lord.”
“Because John Joyce was accused of stealing sheep, because the family was suspected of informing to the police, and because he was angry at John Joyce’s wife?”
“Yes, m’lord.”
“And Big John Casey, Young John Casey, and Pat Lydon are still at large, perhaps to kill again?”
“They are.”
“And four totally innocent men are in jail and one totally innocent man is dead?”
Casey choked for brief moment, as if he were sobbing. “’Tis true.”
“You admit your responsibility for these crimes?”
Thomas Casey waited, sighed, and began again.
“I admit my guilt, yes. However, the Anthony Joyces lied about who was there. The English would have hung Myles Joyce anyway, no matter what I said. They would have sent the others to jail anyway.”
“That is a poor excuse, Thomas Casey. I charge you that for the good of your immortal soul you will tell this story to anyone who asks so that the innocent may be set free. Will you do that?”
“Yes, m’lord. Gladly.”
“Very well, you may go in peace now and work out your sorrow for the rest of your life.”
“Thank you, m’lord!”
His candle dropped from his hand. He turned and staggered towards the door of the church. A couple of men helped him out.
Exhausted and drained, the congregation could not so much as stir. It seemed that no one was breathing.
The Bishop waited till the door of the church was closed. Then he spoke again in Irish. I suspected that he was denouncing the killers, violence, the silence of the valley about the crime, and the English. I glanced around the church. Almost every head was hung. Not Nora Joyce’s however. She sat in her pew, babe in arms, proud, tall, erect. She had won.
After Mass I bumped into Tommy Finnucane.
“Any surprises?”
“Didn’t every policeman in this part of Galway know the day after the killing that Big John Casey had sworn to get rid of John Joyce? We couldn’t prove it and Mr. Bolton wasn’t interested in what we knew. We didn’t know who was there, and those bastards of Anthony Joyce’s crowd had a list. That’s all Mr. Bolton needed. I hear that Young John Casey and Pat Lydon enjoyed killing the women and would like to kill some more.”
“I imagine they won’t do it now.”
“They’ll wait awhile anyway.”
The crowd in church and the larger crowd waiting outside slipped away quietly in the bright sunlight. They were, I thought, beaten, cowed, but not surprised.
I looked for Nora and her baby. And for Josie. They were nowhere to be seen.
“This story will be all over the British Isles by Tuesday morning,” I said. “The truth finally about the Maamtrasna murders.”
“It’s the truth all right, boyo. Or as close to the truth as we will ever get. It won’t make any difference, you understand.”
I was momentarily startled. Then I realized that he was right. Despite all the evidence, Dublin Castle could never admit its mistakes. The Irish had won again, but as always they had lost.
It’s raining now. The wind is rattling the windows of my room. I’ve had two jars of whiskey. I won’t drink any more because it won’t do any good. Big John Casey would continue to live in the valley, ostracized perhaps, marked for the rest of his days as a brutal killer, but free.
Myles Joyce was dead.
That was the story.
And Nora?
Dear God in heaven, what am I to do about Nora?!
24
MY WIFE handed me the sealed envelope.
“Go on open it, will you, Dermot Michael Coyne.”
“I will, woman, if you give me a chance, though I have no doubts that you’ve been absolutely right all along.”
YOU’D BETTER NOT.
“Shut up.”
The note, on a sheet of white computer paper and in Nuala’s neat and precise hand—the handwriting of an accountant—was brief and to the point.
Any idiot would know that Big John Casey was behind the murders. Who else would have had the power in the village to force other men to commit such crimes? Who else would resent a man with a few sheep who dared to steal from his many? Who else would resent the fact that Breige O’Brien had not married him? Maybe the secret society was involved, but politics was only an excuse. Big John Casey had the power to do away with John Joyce and his family and he did just that. He might not have gotten awav with it if it hadn’t been for the Anthony Joyces and their lies. No one in the family would have dared to inform on him. He didn’t want to see Myles Joyce die, though there was no love lost between them. He didn’t want to see innocent men go to prison. He was afraid that Pat Casey and Pat Joyce would inform on him to save their lives, but he was pretty confident that the Brits wouldn’t believe them. Still, he must have had some uneasy days until the hangings were over.
Now call your friend An t‘Athair Sean O’Laighne and tell him that I was right all along.
Nuala Anne McGrail Coyne.
“So you had the right of it all along,” I said, sitting down on our couch. Two white furry critters tried to nibble on my shoes.
“Cut it out, Deirdre.”
“That’s Dana, Dermot Michael.”
Fiona stood at the door of the parlor admiring her progeny.
“I did have the right of it,” she said, “but it was evident all along, wasn’t it now?”
“Elementary.”
She sighed loudly.
“Not that it does us or them any good.”
“Except that the truth can be told at last.”
“Sure, didn’t your man tell it in his articles long ago?”
“It’s all forgotten. The record should be made c
lear and explicit.”
“Won’t our Ethne do it in her Ph.D.?”
Ah, that was the way the wind was blowing, was it now? Incidentally, like everyone on the island she called the precious doctorate the P Haitch D, the Irish language lacking a soft h sound.
“There’s something I’m missing, Dermot Michael,” she confessed, “as plain as the nose on me face.”
“Pretty nose.”
She snorted.
“I can’t figure out whether it has to do with the past mystery or the present.”
“Maybe both?”
She glanced up at me, as if I had said something very intelligent.
“Maybe you have the right of it, Dermot Michael.”
“I’ll call the priest.”
“Tell him that the final installment is under a stack of old church records in a closet in his office and that I’m dying to know how it ends.”
“You don’t know, Nuala?”
“I don’t have a friggin’ clue.”
The next morning about eleven o’clock Eugene Keenan appeared at our door. There were four Garda cars in front of our house, our own constant protection and three accompanying the Deputy Commissioner.
“Look at all the Garda cars,” my wife protested. “What will the neighbors think?”
“That they’ll be happy when these crazy Yanks go home!” I said, not doubting the truth of that.
“Jesus and Mary be with this house,” Gene said as I opened the door.
Nuala replied in Irish that Jesus and Mary and Patrick should be with all who came to the house.
“Woman,” the Deputy Commissioner said wearily, “where’s me tea?”
Gene Keenan, a tall, handsome man with twinkling blue eyes, gray-tinged brown hair, and an easy smile, brought out the worst in my wife, just as Jake Lane did. He was a perfect target for her love of banter, something which I was usually spared because I was her “dear sweet husband.”
“Well, if them as says they’re coming for midmorning tea and expecting warm scones were on time, wouldn’t the tea and the scones be ready!”
He glanced at his watch, “eleven o’clock?”
“’Tis late morning as anyone knows. Midmorning ends at ten-thirty.”
Irish Love Page 24
